Lord of the Rings: Lady of Gondor
by Evaden
Summary: The story of the War of the Rings, from the perspective of Boromir's wife, Atalante, telling of her coming to Gondor, her grief at Boromir's death, and her eventual love for another member of the Fellowship...[hint: the sexy one...]
1. Minas Tirith

**Chapter One – Minas Tirith**

She kept her head bowed low.

Rain cascaded over her body in cold waves that penetrated even the warmth and protection of her wool cloak. Icy droplets of water streamed over the hood of her mantle and dropped onto her hands as she held the reigns of her horse.

She moved her hands into her sleeves.

Her entire body was filled with cold. A chill had settled over her long ago and had sunk, she felt, deep into her bones. Her lips were numb. They were probably blue from cold as well.

Out ahead of her, through the blinding rain, she could just make out the form of her father, riding low and bent protectively over his mount. His tall figure afforded little bulwark in such a driving storm with exception to the back of his horse.

Riding dismissively around her and her father, the rest of their party seemed in much the same state as those whom they followed. They rode silently, saying nothing because the rain made words impossible. She could see only a few of them from under her hood. They were riding in front of her, grouped loosely around her father and bent over to imitate him, though more out of necessity that any desire to emulate.

She herself preferred to linger behind her father's company. They were far too grave for her and she did not mind to be alone. In fact, she rather fancied it.

She had brought five ladies in waiting. They would, she knew, be riding in a close circle, desperately trying to shelter themselves from the weather. There was no need for her to look back and locate them, for they had spent nearly the entire journey in that same way. They did not ride directly with her, but farther back according to regulation. It was more proper that the lady of status ride further ahead and apart from her maids as she was ahead in wealth and class.

She had no need for company. Beside her rode her own guardian: Datholen would be riding straight-backed, unhindered by the storm. He had the will of a lion and if a battle could not waver him, then surely rain could not. She could not see him because of her hood that obstructed her vision, but she could feel his presence at her side. He was riding at her right for when the wind blew rain from that direction it failed to reach her. If she had not been so cold she might have laughed. She was grateful for his shade.

Her party had been riding east for several days now. It had not been in their luck to have pleasant weather for their journey and now, on the fourth day, everyone wished heartily that their destination would appear soon – preferably before they succumbed to frostbite.

Her hands were shaking severely. She had lost all feeling in them so that she could not even feel the rough leather of the reigns. Her breath turned to smoke as she exhaled through trembling through trembling lips. Briefly she shut her eyes, trying for a moment to block out the cold and the wet.

A mumbled voice called out among the party.

Here eyes flashed open. She had not caught the words.

"The city! Ahead of us!" came the cry, more apparent now that she had listened for it.

She jerked her head up, ignoring the rain that splashed on her face as she did so. Through the thick mist that lay heavy on the fields of Pelennor she discerned the shape of Minas Tirith, the capital of the realm of Gondor her country. The city rose in the distance, a pale white ghost behind a gray veil of water.

At last.

Despite her frozen state, she smiled. It was a weary smile, but a glad one. How good it was to see those glistening white spires after so many days of traveling. How she had begun to long for a sight of the city when incessant rain had turned her to ice as she rode. Yet here it was.

The entire company picked up their pace. Even the horses seemed to catch scent of it, sensing instinctively that rest was near, and quickened their canter. The riders continued as fast as they could through the blinding rain and from the front of the group she managed to catch a few syllables of her father's commands as he instructed two of their company to ride ahead to inform the Steward of their approach.

She watched the two newly elected envoys dash off across the field, dwindling into the distance until they were swallowed up into the fog. It would not be long until they reached the city. Her own frozen body ached for warmth and shelter, and her muscles twitched to flick the reigns and race to the gates of Minas Tirith with the two that had gone on before, but she was too cold and too weary to try even that. With an impulsive shiver she urged her mount on until she was riding behind her father and the driving rain was lessened somewhat in his lucrative shade.

Her thoughts were far away. Fleetingly they had drifted to the gates of the city ahead and what lay behind them.

It was in Minas Tirith that she was to be presented.

According to the customs of Gondorian women of nobility, she had reached the age wherein she would come out, or come into her name. There would be grand parties and gala events where she would be the headline. Most of this was intended to lead up to marriage, which was inevitable. She would become eligible after her presentation in the House of the Royal Steward, and it was thought quite proper that she should take a husband soon afterwards. It all narrowed down to how well she performed whence she came before the Steward, and whether she met with his approval.

Indeed, and very large part of her future depended on it.

As a wave of cold air blew over her, all thoughts in her mind were banished save only those of her desire to reach the city. Vaguely she heard the hooves of Datholen's horse as he came up beside her, but she did not turn to confirm the sound. She kept her head bowed and her eyes shut tightly, letting her mount follow the rest of the company. She was much too exhausted to move.

Up ahead, the lord Inaridiel glanced over at his companion.

"How fares my daughter?" he asked with a slight grimace. Without a word his companion dropped silently back in the ranks to check. Within a moment he had returned.

"Well?"

"Her eyes are cast downwards. I fear the weather suits her not."

Lord Inaridel tightened his jaw.

"It suits us all very ill," he muttered. "The Steward is very unwise to hold his court at the time of the raining season. We should not tarry any longer on this field." So saying, he spurred his horse vigorously and was off, his startled companion in hot pursuit. The rest of the revenue saw them go and immediately received the command to follow.

The commotion around her woke her from her daze. She blinked and looked around, a little confusedly at first, but it did not take her long to realize that her father had given the order to run. She guessed that the cold had finally gotten to him, and indeed she was glad.

"My lady," she heard Datholen saying to her. "Come."

"At last," she whispered between chattering teeth. With a swift nudge to her horse's side, she took off.

---------------------------

"Good; well swung, brother; but you're not aiming to hit me."

Boromir, lord of Gondor, tossed his blonde hair out of his eyes and grinned at his younger brother. The lord Faramir's sword whizzed by his ear and kept going, sending that young man whirling into the sidelines.

"Not your day then?"

Faramir wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. "No; it is not. It is not a good day." Both of them were sweating profusedly. Boromir shook off his sibling's pessimism as he raised his own sword into the air in front of his eyes in invitation. "Again?"

His younger brother breathed heavily, but did not deny the offer. With a determined look he lunged into the fight, but he hadn't seemed to muster his resolve and Boromir had bested him again within a few short steps. "The weather has gotten to you today Faramir!" said Boromir jocularly. "I've rarely known you to have lost to me so often."

"I'm not the fighter," Faramir excused himself wearily. He moved a hand over to his shoulder and massaged it tenderly as though it were hurt.

"More practice, I think," grumbled Boromir, striding over to an arched window nearby. "You let your weapons go to rust with little use." He gazed out of the window at the Pelennor Fields, half hidden in a ghostly fog as they were to his eyes. The rain that poured outside had hidden the horizon from view, and the whiteness that surrounded the city was closing in fast. The path leading to the outer gate could be barely discerned through the haze.

"Will it rain forever," he asked, a little angrily, though it was more rhetorical than an actual question. Faramir looked up. "There's a convoy from Dol Amroth that is supposed to reach the city this mid-day."

"They were ill-advised to travel at this time," Boromir commented. "But why are they coming here?"

Faramir got up and went to join his brother at the window. "The court presentation will take place in only four days. Have you forgotten already? Minas Tirith sees these festivities once a year…"

"Yes, of course," Boromir cut him off. "I had forgotten, true; but only because it is not important. I feel I've spent too many months in Osgiliath that my mind is completely given over to soldiers' ways." He grinned at Faramir. "But I'll gladly relinquish them for this. The presentation? The thing itself will be a bore, but the company won't get any more agreeable in this place." Boromir slapped his brother's arm jovially, and the latter winced.

"You're never out of place with the women, brother," said Faramir sarcastically.

Boromir flipped his hair back again. "Neither are you," he retorted. Faramir flushed red. "Our father will no doubt endeavor to find you a wife from among the throng this year," he said quietly, and Boromir sighed. "No doubt," he answered, looking back out at the misty field below. "He will see that I choose one, this time more than ever because he needs an heir, but if the women are anything like they have been on every other occasion I'm afraid our father will be very disappointed."

"In you?" Faramir raised an eyebrow. "Never." Boromir turned abruptly and went back to the floor. Faramir felt that he had struck a nerve.

"Do we fight again?" he asked hesitantly. Boromir raised his sword.

------------------------------------

The company moved hurriedly. Rain continued to pour over the Pelennor Fields as only it could in Gondor, the torrent seeming to increase by the minute. It slowed their progress intolerably but all involved shared only one motivation and did all that they could to accomplish the task at hand. Within minutes the gates of Minas Tirith had hove into sight, to the vast relief of the entire company.

She saw the gates through a mist of rain. Huge wooden doors that rose up as it were right out of the ground, beautiful and austere carvings etched into them, framed by an immense arch hewn of white stone. The gateway was small, comparatively, to the walls of the city that surrounded for miles. Her breath caught in her chest at the sight of them, and shivers of anticipation ran down her spine. She had never seen the city before in her life, as it was a great distance from her own home in the fief of Dol Amroth.

As they came within range of the walls the gate creaked open for them to pass through. She slowed her horse automatically as she rode beneath the white arch of the gateway. The rain on her hood ceased as she went, but it was only a temporary sense of comfort that hit them all as they passed through the closeness of the gate into the harsh stone courtyard.

The city rose up before them in all of its shadowy magnificence. The stone towers castled up to the gray sky, as if they had been built by the giants, and their spires disappeared into the rain clouds that circled low around them. Great stone buildings towered upwards, rising in tiers toward the top of the mountain out of which the city had been hewn. Each level was encircled by a wall of its own, and every level was smaller than the one before it, until they peaked at the climax of the rock, jutting out into a monstrous divide that seemed to cut clean down the center. It was a beautiful city, and yet it was ugly. It was a symbol of the greatness of the race of man at the glory period of Ages past, and it was truly a marvel, but it portrayed a certain asperity that was quite cowing.

She shivered.

As a citizen of Dol Amroth, few cities could compare to the almost unequaled beauty of her own place of residence. With its intensity and shadow of command, Minas Tirith seemed to her to be the most apropos place for the unpopular Steward of Gondor.

Already, she was not sure that the city would hold much happiness for her.

A small sentry of guards met her company as they entered through the gate. She hardly watched as a few words were passed between the soldiers and her father, so taken was she with her new surroundings. Her eyes passed rapidly over the white rock walls, traveling further and further until they met the sky before racing back down to the paved court in which she and they others waited for the orders to pass. It wasn't until the procession began to move again, several moments later, that she tore her gaze away from the architecture.

The guards obviously intended to escort them to wherever they meant to go for they rode beside and in front of her party. All of them were decked smartly in the polished silver armor bearing the raised insignia of the White Tree of Gondor emblazoned on their chest plates. All of them wore helmets – silver like their other accoutrements and slightly pointed near the top – with the exception of their leader. The latter was bareheaded, fitted to the finest degree in armor to match his company, and rode a chestnut horse near the head of the convoy. Her father rode beside him.

She felt Datholen close in at her right and felt slightly reassured in his presence. He seemed to be telling her that no matter how very large and ominous the city around them appeared to be, he would always be there at her side, protecting her. She took great comfort in this.

They reached the first gate in a matter of moments. It was wooden, though not nearly as large and impressive as the outer gate, and was opened for them almost as soon as they reached it. It led to the second tier of the city. As they processed through that section, she noticed that like in the first section of the city, very few people turned to watch them on their way. They were apparently very used to strangers in their midst, and it occurred to her that this might be due to the fact that Minas Tirith was indeed the capital of Gondor and probably saw strange folk within its walls nearly all the time.

In response to this nonchalance, she found herself staring half-heartedly at her gloves.

Her breath was drawing quicker and becoming labored as she drew closer to the palace at the top of Minas Tirith. The rain had intensified as well and poured in sheets, sending small waves coursing down the cobbled road; the sharp sounds of the horses' hooves against the cobblestones were muffled by the little river of water that was running steadily over them.

The weather worsened near the top of the city, over the circular courtyard that enclosed the White Tree. The procession was stopped here, and Datholen dismounted hurriedly in order to lend his assistance to his lady. She glanced at him with tired eyes, laying a limpid hand on his broad shoulder as she slid off her horse's back.

"We've arrived," she said, and Datholen smiled. "Yes," he assured her comfortingly, "And not too soon. You are looking very blue, my lady."

She looked up through the rain at the palace doors. "Let us go in, then." Almost in answer, the doors were opened and her father was the first to step inside. With a firm resolve she released herself from Datholen followed them, the rest of their revenue coming up behind.


	2. The Palace

Chapter Two – The Palace

A somber looking advisor approached them, speaking softly and making few comprehensible gestures.

"Welcome, lord Inaridel," he said gravely. "I speak for the Royal Steward in my greetings to you. You are most welcome here; unfortunately, the Steward is unable to see you at this time. I am instructed to see you to your rooms where we do hope you will find comfort while you are with us."

Her father looked grim. "We have just come," he said gravely, "From the city of Dol Amroth and a journey of nearly a week's time. If the Steward cannot welcome us himself then I will consider the slight most unjust."

The Advisor showed no sign of emotion.

"I will repeat your question to the Steward, though I guarantee little change in his decision," he returned crisply.

Inaridel's daughter looked up and around the hall. It was very large, with marble and stone masonry rising in cold magnificence on all sides to the high domed roof. The hall was very cold, very silent, and quiet empty. At the far end, an empty throne waited on a stone step.

The Steward had apparently gone out.

"I will show you to your rooms," said the advisor again, "But I can assure that the Steward is indeed otherwise occupied at this time. If you please…" He slid past lord Inaridel and off down a silent hall, not turning back to see if they had followed him. With a weary sigh, her father walked off after him, and the rest of the company followed, as was their wont.

----------------------------------

"Who has come?" the Steward Denethor grunted, stabbing a pin into the map that lay spread out on a table before him. The Advisor trembled as he watched the Steward grab out for another of the sharp iron pins that marked the stations of the watch at Osgiliath and jab it into place.

"If you please, sir; the lord Inaridel, from Dol Amroth, has just arrived and his company is awaiting you leisure."

"Inaridel, eh?" Denethor snarled and yanked another pin out of the map. "That quadrant needs to be moved to the Southern post. Inaridel, you say? Is he here for the…the…"

"The presentations, yes my lord," quipped the Advisor hurriedly. "His daughter is with him; the lady Atalantë." Denethor appeared to be studying the map, one finger tracing a route down the printed landmarks on the worn parchment surface.

"Is she beautiful?"

"My lord?" The Steward didn't look up. "I asked if she was beautiful," he said again. "I shouldn't have to repeat myself."

The Advisor nodded hastily. "Ah; well, yes, sir…ah, I didn't get much of a glimpse of her myself but word has it that she is very beautiful."

Denethor's head shot up and he cast a grim glance at his Advisor. "I know what word says," he muttered, "But I've never trusted it." He glared deep into the Advisor's countenance as he continued, "Word has been saying that the heir of Gondor would return, and after many centuries the people realize that it is all false. It is for reasons such as this that we should not put our faith in the local word."

The Advisor remained rigid. "Of course," he stammered nervously, and Denethor turned back to the map. "I want you to bring back a detailed and faithful report of the looks and spirits of this girl for me," said the Steward calmly. "My son is in need of a wife and my years are closing. He would have the best, but it seems that their breed is no longer as strong for us. I need to know about this one."

"Of course," the Advisor nodded. "Also, if you please, my lord; the Lord Inaridel has made it known to myself that he is most displeased that your highness has not greeted him after his long journey. He…considers it a slight…most unjust." 

Denethor growled in his throat. "Fine," he bit sharply. "Tell his most demanding lordship that I will meet him in the Royal Hall in an hour." The Advisor bowed low, and backed slowly away out of the room.

--------------------------

Atalantë paced the floor of her room, nervously shifting the weight of her furs over her shoulders. She was still very cold from the ride, although her company had reached the palace over a night ago. The rain had reached her bones it seemed, and combined with the excitement of her nearing presentation, she shivered almost uncontrollably.

The room in which she had been put up for her stay was a very large one, and very grand, with its enormous fireplace and thick, luxurious velvet rug laid in copious abandonment on the floor. Two giant velvet curtains were strung on either side of the tall arched window. They had been closed in order to keep out the cold, but Atalantë had had them opened again. The cold, fresh air rushed around the room, smoking in the fire, and bringing with it all of the smells of the rain that had not ceased to fall.

Atalantë was alone. She had sent her maids away after they had seen to her every comfort on arrival, but only because she did not wish to speak to anyone at present. Her father had already gone off that morning to meet with the Steward, and she waited expectantly for his return in order to know all about her upcoming appearance in the court. He had been gone for a while now, and so Atalantë had had nothing to do but pace the floor back and forth as she was doing now.

There was an unexpected knock at the door, and she rushed in a flurry of velvet and furs to open it. Datholen stood there, slightly aback at her haste.

"My lady?" he asked. Atalantë pounced on him and took his hand, leading him into the room. "Did you learn anything?" she asked anxiously. "Has my father returned?"

Datholen grinned, but shook his head. "Nay, my lady, he hasn't." Seeing the look of disappointment cross Atalantë's face, he added quickly, "But I have walked the corridors and have gleaned a little information for your benefit." Atalantë brightened admirably, and bade her guardian to sit beside her at the foot of the high bed. The latter looked hesitant at first, but she waved his fears away hastily. "No one will know," she told him.

"Well?" she prompted anxiously, kneading his roughened hand in both of hers. Datholen cleared his throat.

"We are not the only company to have come," he began, "But you had probably already expected that." Atalantë nodded thoughtfully, and urged him on. "What do they look like?" she asked. "The other ladies? Are they very beautiful?"

Datholen grinned again, boyishly, and shook his head. "I saw some of them," he admitted, "Walking the corridors with their escorts, but I did not find any of them more lovely than yourself."

"Flatterer!" Atalantë whispered accusingly. "You are bold. But please, continue. Are they as nervous as I?"

"Yes, and more!" Datholen answered, squeezing her hands comfortingly. "They walk slowly and talk in shaking voices. I have wondered privately what cause there is to be so frightened. It is only a matter of presenting yourself to the court."

Atalantë quaked. "Aye, but in front of an assembly," she shivered. "All of their eyes upon you…I think we have much cause for the fear that afflicts us." She sidled closer to Datholen, drawing her knees up to her chest and laying her dark head on his shoulder. "It is all silliness. I'd much rather stay home, where I know everything and everyone, and marry you Datholen." Datholen looked down at her, her raven hair spilling all over her shoulders into silken knots on the bed and floor, and looked very much as though he wished the same thing. "That is a dream, my lady," he said quietly. "That is a dream."

Datholen was a soldier, and the son of a soldier before him. His father had been a captain in the ranks, and had died with honor, murdered by a band of ravaging orcs that had come unexpectedly on the encampment at some far off post. Datholen had not been there when he died. Now, having taken up the vocation that he had been raised to do, his position was far below that of Atalantë's and to even think of attempting to court her would have been foolhardy indeed. He had been her guardian for the greater part of his career, and they had become firm friends during that time. This was the most that anyone in his position could hope for, and he felt exceptionally fortunate.

Another knock at the door startled Atalantë to her feet. "I don't know who is at my door," she said worriedly. "Datholen, you must hide; if they see you here they will not understand."

Datholen understood immediately, and without a second's hesitation, dived behind on of the heavy curtains near the window. Smoothing her hair and dress, Atalantë wrapped her fur around her again and went to see who required her. She was shocked to find none other than the Advisor at the door.

"Excuse my intrusion, my lady," he said in his bored voice. "It is my duty to inquire if you have everything that you need, and to instruct you to call whenever you are wanting."

Atalantë blanched. "Ah, yes; thank you," she stammered. "I am very well, I have everything I require. Thank you," she added, not sure what to say. She watched his gaze drift as he look her up and down. The advisor bowed, and slid snakily away, and she shut the door after him with the utmost bafflement. Datholen peeked out from behind his curtain. "Why did he come here?" he wondered.

Atalantë spread her hands. "I am very much as confused as you are," she admitted, and cast a doubtful glance at the closed door. "You had better leave," she suggested to Datholen, "Before anyone else comes to my room again. We don't want any sort of ill-founded rumors traveling around the palace." She looked back at her guardian sadly. "That sort of thing could cost more than my reputation."

"I understand," the latter replied. "I will take my leave." He kissed her hand.

--------------------------------

"What is she like?"

The Advisor cast an anxious look at lord Inaridel, who was standing in grim bewilderment a little farther from them.

"She is very beautiful indeed, my lord," he whispered to Denethor, and the Steward smiled.

"That is very good news," he answered, in low tones. "Excellent. The lord Boromir will be pleased."

The Advisor bowed, and left the hall, a smug look altering his odious features.

--------------------------------

"The Lady Atalantë is my supposed bride then?"

The lord Boromir, clad in a dark indigo tunic, his hair still wet from the water he had splashed over it after his exertions in the weapon's hall, turned to his father with a look of slight anxiety.

"I said nothing of marriage," Denethor hastened to say. "Only, she is supposedly very pleasant to look at, and that is heartily a first."

"You said nothing of marriage, father, but you meant it with every word." Boromir paced on the floor as he continued, offended, "Many women of the court have been called beautiful before the lady Atalantë, and as you are so fond of saying, I have begun to doubt the rumors. She could be an idiot, for all we are told."

Denethor hurried to relieve his son's anger. "All I am suggesting," he assuaged grimly, "Is that you are of age, and it is high time for you to take a wife." The Steward glared at his son before adding dourly, "I need to see our line extended, Boromir. You are my eldest child and it is on you that I am counting."

Boromir returned the stare. "And what of Faramir?" he asked pointedly. Denethor threw up his hands.

"What of him?" he asked, his anger ebbing in his voice. "He is a second child. It is not Faramir who will inherit; it is you!"

"Faramir will have sons as well, father," Boromir explained. Denethor reached over and grabbed furiously at the collar of his eldest son's tunic. The man was bigger than him, and broader, and there had been times during their history where Denethor might have actually feared to grab Boromir like this in anger, but his mind was whirling with the latter's apparent disregard for his own duties.

"They will not inherit," he snarled significantly. "Your sons will take over the line of the Stewards of Gondor, and that is not of marginal importance." He glowered at his son, hoping that the errant boy felt every meaningful word. "You will marry, Boromir," Denethor told him with finality. "You will marry this month. Anyone you choose from those who will assemble in three days, but you will choose one of them. I merely suggested the Lady Atalantë because she has seemed so far to be the most worthy, but my word in that matter is not a command. You will marry whom you like, Boromir; I wash my hands of this. You have three days to decide."

He released his son, and strode furiously out of the room. 


	3. The Presentation

The Palace atmosphere was thick was expectation. It was the day of the Presentation and families from all different parts of Gondor had gathered at Minas Tirith with their daughters, filling the halls with their nervous chattering and incessant fretting.

Atalantë made her way down one crowded hallway, skirting the groups of young women who gathered in packs along the walls. They were all talking of the events of that evening, though no two conversations centered on the same issue. Atalantë kept her shawl wrapped over her head, hiding her face from the searching looks of the other girls. Jealous whispers and the scathing comments permeated the palace, though none were directed at her, and Atalantë wished that it would remain so. Several people eyed her strangely for keeping her face wrapped in a shawl, but so far there had been no comment to her about it, for which she was thankful.

There was already too much stress laid on her as it was for her own beauty to be called out and scrutinized by a thousand, and it seemed, more beautiful, judges. Atalantë had always been told that her beauty was more of a matured kind. For years her mother had skirted the issue of her daughters' looks, and whenever pressed would reply only that she thought her child to be "tolerably pretty, perhaps" which did nothing for the Lady's self esteem. Now, Atalantë had lain in wait in her rooms for the time that she should have to appear in the court of the Steward, but the babbling noises of the people outside of her door had driven her into a worried rage. So she had decided to escape it.

With a fleeting glance at the hall behind her, Atalantë left it and slipped silently into the shadows. All of the girls had been bidden to stay with the confines of the aforementioned hall at the request of the Steward himself who had acted under the pretense of a desire that they should shield themselves from the looks of men before they had come out, but really so that they would not get in the way of the normal day to day routines of the palace staff and guard. Atalantë had been warned of these limits, but felt assured that no one would see her if she remained hidden in dark corners and empty halls.

Keeping a watchful eye out for inquisitive passers-by, she made it through another empty corridor and out into a small pentagonal atrium framed by six ominous stone pillars. With a relieved smile, Atalantë removed her headscarf and removed the pin from her hair, letting it tumbled in glorious sheaves down to her feet. She was alone at last.

Softly she walked out into the center of the foyer, feeling the silence of the chamber as she stared up at the domed ceiling. The echoing emptiness was a welcoming alternative to the continual noise of the guest-hall. The marble walls were cold, like the tile of the floor beneath her sandaled feet. Atalantë looked up at the top of the dome where a rounded sheet of glass was suspended over an open circle at the pinnacle of the ceiling. Through this she could see the sky. White-gray clouds that nearly engulfed the sky behind them rolled slowly across the heavens. Even the smell in the air signified rain. Atalantë watched the sky for a while in silence as the subtle but continual change in the pattern of the clouds began to lull her into a daze.

The calm did not last long as there was a sudden, subtle noise behind her then, like the sound of careful footsteps against the marble floor. Her heart skipped a beat as she whirled around. A man was standing in the shadows, partially hidden by one of the pillars. He was a big, broad-shouldered man, a warrior perhaps, with tangled blonde hair to his chin and a slightly unshaven beard clinging to his jaw and upper lip.

Atalantë stared in shock for a moment, not knowing quite what to do, and the man did the same. They watched each other for a brief moment.

He moved only slightly. Startled, Atalantë flung her shawl over her head and fled away. She dashed down the halls, her dress and hair both whipping frantically out behind her, and stopped only when she flung herself into her room and shut the door. Her heart was beating at an odd angle, giving her a pain, and it was only after it had calmed down that Atalantë wondered why she had run away at all.

She did remember that man. He had looked at her; but she had not really seen his face.

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When the time came for the ominous presentation, Atalantë felt very little honest fear. She was led into the enormous atrium for the ceremony. The hall was crowded to bursting with women from all parts of Gondor, all dressed in their finest and all staring at one another with looks of utter jealousy and loathing. Her soul felt removed, almost indeed as if it were not her own, as her father led her up to the steps of the Steward's throne. Denethor stared at her rather pointedly, a sour smile on his unpleasant face which offended her, but she bowed before him like she had been instructed, and was introduced to the court. She remembered, afterwards, searching the room for the man whom she had seen that morning in the atrium, but he appearance in court that evening was painfully absent.

Her father had required her to stay in the hall after greeting the Steward, and she had done as he had commanded, but with only half, she felt, of her heart and mind. Datholen had shot several sympathetic glances over at her from his post a little farther from her, which she appreciated, but mostly she felt tired and wished to return home.

That evening, Atalantë walked out by the fountain court, alone. She went behind a shadowed pillar and stared down at her hands, feeling for some odd reason that she wasn't very good to look at. She had never been surrounded by so many clamoring women and heard so many conversations centered on physical beauty before in her life that it was beginning to toll on her. Atalantë knew exactly how she looked; she was tall, more so than most girls she had known, but she wasn't very thin – she had never been considered fat, but there was more on her than she would have liked, as well as very unattractively large breasts. She had never cared before, but somehow it now seemed an honest concern. Perhaps she really was very ugly.

There was a noise behind her, coming from the direction of the fountain; a strangely familiar sound, like cloth boots against marble. Atalantë peeped timidly around the pillar to see who it was and hoped it wasn't Datholen. She liked him very much, but didn't wish to speak with him now.

The man who stood there was not Datholen, but the same man whom she had met rather unexpectedly only that morning. He was standing a little ways from her, and in the moonlight Atalantë caught a glimpse of his face and her heart nearly leaped from her body.

He saw her as well, the same tall, willowy beauty he had seen only once before.

"Don't go," he said abruptly, as she turned to leave for fear of disrupting him. Atalantë turned, and with a streak of boldness like she hadn't had before, she approached the man until they stood face to face.

Boromir looked at her. She was beautiful unlike anyone he had ever seen. Her skin was like ivory beneath the glance of the moon, and her eyes were like silver. Rich, dark hair enhanced her wraithlike appearance, and blended subtly with the shadows around her.

"Are you with the guests?" he asked her. She nodded. He was being frightfully forward, but she didn't seem to mind. Boromir took it at a stride and went on. "Could you tell me your name?" he asked gruffly.

She told him.

"Atalantë," he repeated quietly, apparently feeling the name in his mind as if he recognized it. "You are very beautiful, Lady Inaridel."

Atalantë blushed furiously, wondering how he knew her surname. "You have not told me your name, sir," she said. Boromir grinned, but did to hesitate.

"I am called Boromir," he replied simply.

Atalantë wrinkled her forehead. "Not the son of the Steward!" she asked.

"The same."

Atalantë was shocked at his reply, and her immediate instinct was to bow, which she did. It was a slight bob of her head and a curtsey, but Boromir touched her chin and bade her not to defer.

"Don't be alarmed," he told her quickly. "We are not in a place where the politeness of the court can or should pertain. Please, if you would; treat me simply as you would any other person." Not knowing what to say, Atalantë smiled.

"If it pleases you, my lord," she acknowledged gracefully, lowering her eyes. The spray of the fountain caught her cheek and left a few sparkling dewdrops beneath her lower lashes. Boromir noticed them, to his own surprise - for very infrequently did he pay so close attention to a woman, and his pulse increased in speed.

Atalantë felt his gaze on her. A tinge of color rose to her face as she seemed to sense his displeasure with her. The body that had for so long plagued her now became more hideous the harder she concentrated on it. She suddenly felt an overwhelming desire to appear beautiful in front of the lord of Gondor. Even as these startling new emotions were awakened within her, her own appearance held less and less of an appealing light to her mind. Her full chest suddenly became heavier and more vulgar, and her waist seemed far wider than she had formerly supposed. She shifted a little, trying to find a position that would both display her assets and hide her faults.

Boromir watched her as she moved, so slightly. Her astonishing beauty made his breath shorten in his lungs. Instinctively he felt that here was a woman unlike any before her. Never in his life had he been faced with such indomitable grace, such raven beauty. His mind could think of no comparison for her. She idealized the paradigm of a woman to him.

Atalantë herself was short of breath. Her lungs felt constricted by an unknown force. A traitorous seed of desire purged her mind and for a moment she experienced the insane and nearly overwhelming urge to throw herself at Boromir and to kiss him, so releasing all of the polite limitations that bound her.

"Lady Atalantë!" She heard her name called and turned to see one of her handmaidens approaching, though she still hadn't seen her. Atalantë turned back to Boromir. "I must go," she told him urgently. "I shouldn't be out alone."

She looked deep into his eyes, shaking with the overpowering sensations that Boromir had awoken in her, unlike anything she had ever felt before with any other man. There was an intense sensation of virility about him that made her knees buckle and her eyes water, and despite the fact that she had seen and even been held by a man before, there had been no such emotions like this to come between them. It made Atalantë realize for the first time how powerful a man like Boromir was, and for the first time in her life she wasn't frightened by this dominance.

Boromir himself was existing under and only an ineptly convulsed restraint. He too felt genuinely that though he had been with many women before in situations like this and more, none of them had thrilled to his touch in such an honest and youthful manner, and this pleased him. There was something so naïve, so untouched, about the Lady Inaridel that alerted him. It was in the way that she walked and the way that she spoke, and acted around him, in even the few moments that they had been acquainted. She intoxicated his senses completely.

"I must go," she repeated again, but the words fell mechanically from her lips. Both she and Boromir stood still, staring at each other as if they were loathed to part.

"Why?" he asked then. "We've…only just met," Atalantë stammered, "And I…I'm afraid…that…"

"Of what?" Boromir tightened his hold on her hands as if he was afraid she would run away. "You're company will be leaving in the morning, won't they?" It was a question that sprang unexpectedly to his mind.

Atalantë gasped a little at the reminder. "Yes," she said apprehensively. Boromir came a little closer to her, until their bodies were almost touching. He was breathing heavily. Instinctively, Atalantë put her face up to his, every so slowly nuzzling a little closer to his.

"You will never be returning to Minas Tirith?" Boromir was asking in a raspy voice.

"No."

He was hesitant to touch her. It would have been highly improper, and what was more it might have shamed her to have done so.

"Lady Atalantë!"

She broke apart from him as if she had been struck. Turning her stricken gaze behind her, Atalantë feared that her maid would soon discover her hiding place. With fearless resolution she looked back at Boromir and new this to be her last chance. Quickly, Atalantë flew up to him, taking his face in her hands, and kissed him tenderly and long.

"Goodbye," she whispered softly, as he released her, and fled off down an empty corridor.

-------------------------------

Faramir watched his brother pace worriedly around the room. He found that Boromir had begun to do this often.

"Do you love her then?" he decided to ask.

Boromir's forehead was creased in wrinkles. "I don't know! Damn it to hell." He hit the wall with the back of his hand. "She's practically a baby, Faramir; she can hardly be over eighteen." He stopped and leaned his hand against the wall, bowing his head contemplatively. "There was something about her that was so innocent, so pure, and yet at the same time she conveyed a strong experience. It was unlike anything I have ever felt."

Faramir averted his own eyes to the clear blue sky outside marking the peak of morning. The sunshine was a pleasant change from the drizzling rain that had fallen for so long over Minas Tirith. But Denethor's younger son had much more troubling things on his mind than the weather.

"Would you be prepared to marry the lady Inaridel?" he asked quietly. Behind him, he heard Boromir shift uneasily on his feet, and he turned to face him.

"What?" His brother looked confused. "Marry? We've only just been introduced…" Suddenly it seemed to dawn on him. "Ah, yes; father's intentions for me to wed…I understand." He was quiet for a moment, his brow wrinkling with the weight of his decision. "Faramir, I would rather marry her than any other woman that I have ever met. Yes, then, if it comes to that. Only, she is so young, and I am so much older than her; I wouldn't want to hurt her."

Faramir heaved a sigh. "Resignation sets upon you, brother?" he said wearily. Boromir grinned at him. "Not at all. Resignation is an obvious result of forced wedlock…it's not unnatural. I am resigned to marriage because I know I cannot avoid it and besides; there are far worse things than that." He looked at his brother. "But the lady Inaridel," he said vehemently, "She was passion. I have never wanted so much wanted to please a woman that I have completely lost my mind."

"That is excellent," said a voice behind them. Both brothers turned to find their father standing in the mouth of the door. Denethor's face wore a grim look of malicious pleasure as he entered the room, his eyes on Boromir. "I apologize, but I couldn't help overhearing your conversation. Tell me, did mine ears deceive me into believing that those last few words, declared with so much fervor, were in fact your feelings for Inaridel's chit daughter?"

Boromir felt himself grow angry. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Faramir shoot him a warning glance. "They were, father," he acknowledged gruffly. He had to force himself to remain calm.

Denethor was eying him warily. "So," he wanted to know, "You met with her did you?" Both of his sons sensed the double meaning in the question.

"I spoke with her at the fountain court," replied Boromir. His father smiled, obviously pleased.

"When?"

Boromir's eyes narrowed. "Last night."

"Ah!" Denethor raised his palms into the air with an attitude of clear presupposition. "You met with her. I am no fool, Boromir; tell me, did you like her?"

His son glared furiously back at him. "I spoke with her, father," he said hotly, "Nothing more"  
Denethor was honestly surprised, and showed it with one raised eyebrow, the knowing grin replaced by his trademark scowl. "Is that so?" He dropped his hands. "Do you feel for her?"

"Yes."

"Excellent!" Denethor raved again, pleased once more at this positive turn of events. "It is good that you feel for her. As you may or may not be aware, the family Inaridel is one of high respect and influence in Gondor - not merely Dol Amroth. Even I would consider an alliance with them to be highly beneficial." He surveyed his eldest son as he continued.

"Their company leaves for Dol Amroth tomorrow. Tonight I will call lord Inaridel to my Hall, and he and I will make arrangements for you marriage to his daughter."

At this, both young men looked up in shock.

"So soon, father?" asked Faramir. Denethor shot a withering glance at his youngest son. "Our time is limited, Faramir," he said, looking back to Boromir as he said it. "I do not wish to put it off any longer. That is my final word. I will see you both at sunset standing in my Hall to welcome the lord Inaridel and his daughter."

With those parting commands, Denethor shifted his heavy mantle back over his shoulders and left the room.

"Now it doesn't really matter whether or not you wish to hurt your lady," Faramir noted gravely. "We shall discover tonight if she thinks you are too old for her."

Boromir glowered at him and turned to follow his father without another word.

---------------------------------

Atalantë was combing her hair by the window. She was not combing it because she liked to do it, or because it was a habit, but because it genuinely needed the care. It was beginning to resemble a sort of mad animal, gone to seed, like all long hair does when it is in need of a comb. So when she had looked down at it that afternoon and seen its state, the large silver brush had come out of the trunk and she had set to work immediately. The day was very fine to her, and afforded a pleasant view as she sat and looked out at it.

She was disturbed by a knock at her door, and she took the opportunity to rest her aching arm.

"Who knocks?" she called. Datholen muttered his name from the other side of the wall, and with a smile, she went to let him in.

"This is a pleasant surprise," Atalantë noted as she fell into his arms and hugged him. He was a great deal like a fond older brother to her, only, except on those occasions when she felt inclined to run off with him to be married. But those inspirations came only in spurts, and only usually when she had been depressed.

"Are you combing your hair?" asked Datholen in mock surprise.

Atalantë surveyed the brush in her hand. "I am. It needed it terribly." Her guardian reached out and stroked her long, flawless locks with a dubious look.

"I hardly think so."

They sat down at the foot of the bed again, and Atalantë began to regale the story of the previous night's escapade at the fountain court. Datholen's face grew grimmer and grimmer as she explained how Boromir had taken her hands, and what she felt when he had. When she came to the part of the kiss Datholen's features had morphed into a stone mask of gloom and despair. Atalantë had nearly finished before she realized what her friend had sunken into.

"Datholen?" she said worriedly, laying a hand on his cheek. "Are you ill?"

"No," the latter replied hoarsely, trying to sound cheerful and failing. "It must the weather." Atalantë wasn't fooled by this, but decided wisely to steer the conversation away from her meeting with the lord Boromir. Privately she felt that it was a remembrance best kept locked in her heart, at least, for the time being.

"Why have you come here? I am sorry that I had not even asked," she apologized mournfully, running a sympathetic finger up Datholen's roughened cheek. Atalantë would never have dared to touch a man like this ever, but her friendship with her guardian went so far back in her life that their contact together was more platonic then romantic. At least, she thought so.

He was avoiding her eyes.

"I've come to summon you to the Hall of the Steward," Datholen said, almost coldly. Atalantë was taken slightly aback at his tone. "I was summoned?" she asked. "But why hadn't you told me sooner? Must I go now? Are they waiting on me?"

Datholen cleared his throat. "No, they're not," he told her finally. "You are required to come in only so short a period as I have been instructed to allow you. You must ready yourself, lady Inaridel."

She grabbed his head in both of her hands and turned it to face her.

"Is it serious?"

"I am of the understanding that it is, lady Inaridel."

Atalantë threw her head warily back. "And who is lady Inaridel?"

Datholen blinked, then saw that she was only teasing. "You never call me by my title in private, Datholen!" Atalantë admonished. "It does make me feel as if you are addressing my mother, and not me." She pointed to herself. "I am Atalantë; to you. Once I am wed then my name will carry a title, but until then please, Datholen, use my first name. At least when we are in private."

She appeared to be struck with a sudden fancy for she fell back laughing onto the bed.

"Lady Atalantë!" She laughed at the thought. "Atalantë; married, as a wife! I will be the Lady of all of Gondor!"

Atalantë reached out her hand and pulled Datholen onto the bed beside her. They lay there for a moment as Atalantë chuckled to herself over her future. "Lady of Gondor," she mused, and looked over at Datholen. "Does it suit me?"

Datholen rolled over into his side and looked down at her. She was more lovely than he had ever seen her before, lying in abandon with her hair in tangles surrounding her face, and he felt his throat tighten uncomfortably.

"I believe," he said slowly, tracing the line of her jaw down to her neck, "That you can be no other than the Lady of Gondor. The title suits you quite well." Atalantë beamed at him.

"Then that is who I will be," she announced. She squeezed Datholen's hand and rolled away off the bed. Standing up, Atalantë brushed off her skirt and went into a small alcove behind a huge velvet drapery that hung like a partition across the room. There was a door through the back of the wall that led into the rooms of her waiting gentlewomen, and she took the liberty of utilizing this commodity by opening it and calling. Her servants scuttled into the alcove as if they had been waiting outside the door for her command.

Hastily Atalantë ordered them to dress her for her appearance in the Hall. Datholen, not wanting to be discovered lying prone on the lady's bedsheets, quietly removed himself from there and disappeared into the hall to wait until Atalantë had finished.

She came out to meet him after a few moments, looking beautiful as he found she always did, with her hair perfectly combed and braided, and herself wearing a long white dress and a silver chain around her waist.

"Am I presentable?" Atalantë asked nervously, putting her hands on Datholen's arm. He patted them supportively and assured her that she was.

He led her out to the Great Hall, where both lord Inaridel and the Steward already stood waiting. Atalantë brightened at the sight of her father, but the smile died immediately when she saw the troubled look on his face. The Steward looked pleased, but that did not comfort her much. Impulsively she realized that there was something wrong.

"Father!" she said, rushing to him after bowing respectively to the Steward, who nodded back. Lord Inaridel took his daughter's hands in his, and turned to Denethor.

"And where is your son?" he asked heatedly. "Let him show his face, and then we will see if my daughter wishes to commit herself to him."

Atalantë felt all of the color rush from her face. "What is this?" she said softly, and looked up at her father with worried eyes. "Father? Of what do you speak concerning me?"

Lord Inaridel didn't meet her gaze, but stared pointedly at the unrepentant Denethor, who continued to survey them both with a hint of victory in his pitiless eyes. From an archway near the side of the Hall, a small cavalcade of guards came striding out, four in all, following close behind two men. Atalantë's heart stopped at the recognition of the man in the lead as being Boromir, with his brother Faramir coming close in the rear and both men looking equally grim.

Boromir stopped in the middle of the Hall and nodded to lord Inaridel, who returned the action, though slightly coldly. He didn't look at Atalantë, but she looked at him. In the light of day she found him to be even more handsome than she had thought before. His broad, powerful build, the roughened face of a warrior, his sandy, tangled hair half pulled back behind his head all worked the same effect they had had on Atalantë's emotions the previous night in the fountain court, only stronger.

He was speaking. "I assume that you have already been informed of my intentions towards your daughter," Boromir began, while his father goaded him on.

"I do not believe that my daughter knows, however," lord Inaridel answered testily. His grip on her arm tightened protectively and she looked up at him with concern. "That I know what, my lord?" she whispered to him, but received no reply. Instead, her father glared at Boromir, and directed his words to him.

"I do not favor the match."

"Match?" Atalantë was bewildered beyond measure, but kept her voice to herself. What match, she thought. Between her and Boromir? But surely, no one knew of her attraction…

Perhaps no one did know.

Perhaps it was an arrangement. A presupposition: Atalantë stared, horrified, up at Denethor. She was being sold for the highest asking price, which was Boromir, and the title and recognition he brought with him.

"It is a highly agreeable match," Denethor was saying, "To either party, I might add." He laughed a little. "Your daughter is unlikely to find any other such partner in all of Gondor as my son."

"He is too old for her!" lord Inaridel said with determination edging his voice. "Wedlock between entirely incompatible ages is not favored upon by those who know its unpleasant qualities." Atalantë surveyed Boromir and thought that perhaps her father's assessment might be a little far fetched.

"Also, your son is a warrior, and likely to die in battle, leaving his wife, whomever she may be, quite alone," continued Inaridel. "It is not the future that I see for my daughter."

"It is honorable to be the widow of a soldier!" Denethor shouted. "You degrade the esteem of my son's position!"

"Enough!" said Boromir suddenly. "Lord Inaridel, if you find me unsuitable for your daughter then please, accept my apology, and I will trouble you no longer."

Atalantë's heart sped up. Don't let him leave, she thought desperately, but her father was nodding already in acknowledgment of Boromir's regret. Without once looking her way, Boromir turned on his heel and left the Hall, his revenue following.

"I accept," she breathed softly.

"What was that?" Both her father and Denethor turned to look at her in amazement. Suddenly she felt quite nervous to have all of the attention so abruptly turned upon her, and for a moment she was stricken speechless.

"That is…," she recovered herself quickly, and drew a hasty breath. "I accept the lord Boromir's offer of marriage." Atalantë shot a quick glance at her father. "That is what he was proposing, was it not?"

Denethor began to laugh.

"See, lord Inaridel; your daughter has some sense, I find. She will have him then; what do you say to that?"

Lord Inaridel raised a wary brow. "If she will have him," he said calmly, "Then I will not stand in her way. As you have said, it is a profitable match." Atalantë's heart plunged down into the pit of her stomach, and for a few minutes she did not know whether to laugh or cry. Her father, not waiting for an answer from either his daughter or the Steward, turned and left the Hall with as much finality in his step as Boromir had had.

Atalantë felt herself to be quite alone with Denethor. She looked at him.

"If you would…excuse me, my lord," she said, dropping a hasty curtsey before fleeing out of a side corridor and outside the palace into an empty circular garden. She flung herself down on the ground and sobbed until her chest ached.

----------------------------

The bans were read that evening in a small foyer with a fountain in the middle of it and a domed ceiling. Atalantë walked up to it on Datholen's arm, feeling devoid of any and all emotions. She cast many anxious glances around the room but for the whole ceremony her father never appeared.

Boromir came, with his brother, both a little astounded at the sudden change of decision with light to the marriage. He took Atalantë's hand when she offered it, and stood with her as the bans were read aloud to them. It struck him how pale his fiancée looked; her face was pallid and her eyes were red from crying. He was put out that she would cry at having to marry him, and because it offended him, he left immediately after the ceremony without staying to talk with her.

Atalantë took his hasty leave as a sign of disinterest and felt both ashamed and sorry that she had agreed to marry him. She began to suddenly realize that a man like him, being older than her and having been out in the world, would not want a young and inexperienced wife. After all, a man had to be able to talk to his wife, and if she hadn't a clue as to what he meant then how could any marriage survive such conditions?

She returned to her room with Datholen, but even he did not stay with her. He said a curt farewell and left her on her own. Her father did not come by at all, to wish her congratulations on her upcoming wedding or even to wish her goodnight.

It was a very lonely young woman who cried herself to sleep that night, while up in the North tower, Boromir of Gondor sat up, unable to sleep for thinking of her.


End file.
